


Inversion Theory

by LlamaWithAPen



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Arguing, Canon Rewrite, Case of the Retired Colourman, Crime, Deductions, Gen, John - Freeform, John shoots the wall, Making fun of each other, Mind Games, Murder, Ode to canon, Other, Random - Freeform, Role Reversal, Sass, Shameless idiocy, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock wears John's jumpers, cases, enjoy, many jokes, random Robert Downey Jr Sherlock reference, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 19:43:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2037609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LlamaWithAPen/pseuds/LlamaWithAPen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A four part story, written back in January 2012. </p><p>Sherlock and John decide to switch roles for three days to see what it’s like in the life of the other. Then a man turns up asking for Sherlock’s help in finding his thieving runaway wife and things get complicated.<br/>Is very much rated PG, and contains nothing racier than men in scruffy bathrobes and the usual Sherlock-John tension (oh ho ho ho).</p><p>Takes place sometime before Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Challenge Accepted

Sherlock was restless again. He and John were sitting in the main room of their apartment at 221B Baker Street; John had a newspaper in hand and Sherlock was prowling the length of the room, occasionally pausing to glare at the skull on the mantle, which was wearing his deerstalker hat.  
Sherlock had been without a case for several days at this point and by now had reached a neurotic level of twitchiness.  
“Sherlock,” said John. “Patience is a virtue.”  
“Agh,” whined Sherlock. “And it’s boring. Everything is boring. I need a case!”  
“I agree,” John said calmly. “But we don’t have one.”  
“Get me one.”  
“I can’t summon cases out of thin air, Sherlock.” John turned the page of the paper.  
"AHH! My mind is imploding! Give me problems, give me work, give me a case!”  
“It’s ten at night, Sherlock. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”  
Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair distractedly. “Oh God, John, what must it be like inside your head, I wonder. It must be nice having everything be so… easy.”  
“Sherlock,” John said, lowering his paper. Sherlock ignored him, hands pressed together in front of his face.  
“Sherlock,” John repeated, sterner this time. “You couldn’t last a week as me.”  
“What?” said Sherlock. “Oh please John, there’s nothing all that difficult about it. You hardly use any of your brain at all. As with most people,” he added with a dismissive hand wave.  
“You say that,” said John. He pointed an accusing finger at Sherlock. “But you don’t really have any idea. You know all of the facts, Sherlock, but you have no understanding of anything I do.”  
“I could say the same to you! According to you, John Watson, I’m fantastic one minute and a moron the next, without ever keeping the actual knowledge in context!”  
“The solar system, Sherlock.”  
“Piss off,” Sherlock grumbled, folding his long limbs in his armchair like he was shielding himself. He and John sat in silence for a long time, John finally reopening his paper so that all Sherlock could see were John’s legs and his hands holding the newspaper up in front of the rest of him. Sherlock remained folded in the chair, glaring fixatedly at a point somewhere around John’s neck.  
Suddenly Sherlock leapt up. “Fine!” he said. “Let’s test your hypothesis, shall we?”  
John lowered his newspaper yet again to reveal a skeptic expression. “’S’cuse me?” he said.  
“Let’s test your theory, John.” Sherlock started pacing, but sounded excited. “For seventy-two hours, starting tomorrow morning, I will live life as John Watson, medical doctor, and you will live as Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. We each attempt to accurately and honestly do as the other would in our everyday lives; no assistance and no hyperbole. Whoever folds first is the loser.”  
John’s face split into a wide grin. For a moment Sherlock watched John weighing the idea in his mind. He could see John liked the sound of the gamble and was sure his discipline would win out over Sherlock’s stubbornness. Sherlock noted the confident look on John’s face and instantly felt energized himself. Being John wouldn’t exactly be thrilling mental work, but the practical applications were fascinating. At least for the feeling of proving John wrong.  
“You are on,” said John. “Do we have a prize for the winner?”  
“Oh…” Sherlock thought. “If I win, I get to try out that new camouflage technique I’ve been wanting to try—“  
“Sherlock, that means filling the apartment with palm trees and a carp pond—“  
“—and if you win… What do you want, John?”  
John considered the question for a moment. “I want to be able to go to a suspense movie without you ruining the ending four minutes in.”  
Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. “Ah, the simplicity of your mind. Fine. We have a deal.”  
The two men shook hands. “We start tomorrow morning then.”  
“Three days,” Sherlock agreed. The two settled into their usual evening silence before eventually plodding off to their respective bedrooms, each planning a day in the life of the man they both understood completely and not at all.

Sherlock awoke to the sound of gunfire and shouts. He sat bolt upright in bed and snatched his harpoon from beside the mattress before sprinting to the door. “John!” he shouted, but the gunfire and intermittent yells persisted. “JOHN!” Sherlock shouted, barreling into the sitting room with his harpoon brandished in his hand.  
John was sprawled in Sherlock’s armchair in his striped blue bathrobe, feet stretched into the middle of the room in ratty slippers, his army-issue gun in his right hand. “Bored,” he drawled. He shot the gun again. Sherlock noted a large bull’s-eye composed of bullet holes and red paint on the next to the face Sherlock had shot into existence on the wall.  
Sherlock gaped at him, harpoon hanging limply in his arms. “It’s five in the morning!” he said.  
“Boring,” said John.  
“You’ll bother Mrs. Hudson.”  
“Boring.”  
“Me. I was sleeping.”  
“Bor-ing.” John shot again without even looking at the bull’s-eye, hitting the target perfectly in the center.  
Sherlock stared at John for a long moment, then turned and stomped back to his room with harpoon in hand. Two could play this game.  
Sherlock showered and dressed before tidying his room. He struggled to be efficient like John was in the morning; John merely had to tug the blankets on his bed into place and tidy some of the laundry lying about in the morning to return his room to order. Sherlock’s, on the other hand, was a mess of papers and bits of experiments, so this effort was entirely lost on the overall effect. However, Sherlock was determined to play the part of Dr. Watson to an award-winning level.  
When Sherlock returned to the sitting room John had not moved. Sherlock took a bit of toast and jam from the kitchen and had breakfast. God, John’s life was dull. Shower, clothes, jam, now what?  
John leapt up from the chair suddenly and began rifling through books on the shelf by the fireplace, finally taking out a medical dictionary, which he opened to a section on some heart condition’s symptoms and began to read, curled up in Sherlock’s chair by the window. Every so often he would heave a sigh, like he was struggling to resist chucking the book across the room. Sherlock could tell that John was smug, just from the way John was causally reclining in the chair.  
Sherlock got out his laptop and started to type at the table. John glanced up from his medical book to watch Sherlock. Sherlock opened his blog and began to type furiously, occasionally mumbling or glancing John’s way as if considering him like a particularly interesting mold growth. John got up and stumbled around the flat, making himself a cup of tea. He paused frequently to glance at Sherlock, who continued typing like a madman at the table for almost an hour.  
Finally Sherlock closed the laptop and went to the kitchen. “I’ll go to the store, then, shall I?” he called from the fridge. A dismembered head from Bart’s and a spoiled carton of cream were all that was left in the icebox.  
“Sure,” said John, examining a stack of notes Sherlock had left on the table from his most recent study of skin pigment changes post-mortem in reaction to changes in temperature. He paused, gritted his teeth, and continued, “Take my card.”  
“You sure?” said Sherlock. Sherlock gave him an innocent look that made John want to punch him in the face.  
“Of course,” John said with mock indifference.  
“So I’ll get milk, and… and… perhaps some blood samples, a few—“ Sherlock noticed John was ignoring him purposefully and stopped trying to get John to tell him what to buy. He was a consulting detective, he could bloody well figure out what John would get for groceries. Sherlock calmly turned and stomped out of the apartment, leaving the door ajar. John heard him descend the stairs and exit out the front door.  
As soon as the door closed, John leapt to the window and crouched down, peering after Sherlock through the window. He could see Sherlock crossing the street, but something wasn’t right. He stared after Sherlock before realizing that Sherlock was not wearing his usual black coat but John’s too-small jacket over a simple jumper. John blinked, trying to think if he’d ever seen Sherlock minus the coat in public.  
Seized by inspiration, John grabbed his laptop and flipped it open. He typed in Sherlock’s website address and found a new blog post, entitled, “My Fantastic Idiotic Brilliant Ignorant Flatmate.” It took a significant amount of effort not to swear aloud.  
The post was several paragraphs long.  
“This morning I was rudely woken by the sound of gunfire in John’s and my flat. In a panic I rushed downstairs with my standard-issue whaling harpoon in case something had happened to John to find him languishing in a chair complaining about being bored while he shot the wall. What a complete disregard for the wallpaper and the wall. Poor Mrs. Hudson. She’ll probably have a fit. It’s amazing how clueless John can be about other people’s feelings. What is life without feelings? I wonder if he has feelings. I know John has feelings but I wonder how they work in his fantastic mind. It’s amazing how he can be so stupid sometimes even though his intellect far outpaces the rest of us—“ John read through an alternatingly despairing and appraising monologue about his ignorance, followed by a recount of the conditions of the challenge from last night and finally a short narrative about the cases they were working on in the next few days.  
He reached Sherlock’s conclusion—“I hope Mycroft’s diet is going well and Lestrade’s wife is not currently cheating on him and Anderson and Donovan have worked out whatever it was they were arguing about yesterday and Molly Hooper isn’t still depressed over her latest romantic disaster and Mrs. Hudson’s hip is working today”—before snapping the laptop shut with a derisive snort.


	2. Fuck You and Your Mind Palace

Sherlock returned to 221B some time later, with a few bags of groceries in each hand to find John waist-deep in old case files dug out of the closet, a slice of cake from the bakery next door balanced precariously on top of the stack of files.  
“John,” Sherlock said.  
“Sherlock,” said John.  
“What are you—“  
“Decided to look though old cases for potential connections to James Moriarty. That is what you do when I’m out and you’re here, isn’t it?”  
Sherlock stared at him. “Sometimes, John,” he said finally. Every now and then John would say something that made Sherlock stop and, as unusual as it was, appreciate the quiet awareness of John Watson. “The world is big, and Moriarty is one man clever enough to pocket the whole thing. If we can track his connections, perhaps it’ll give something away someday.”  
“You really think he’s likely to leave an open end somewhere?”  
“Maybe, once in all of hundreds of crimes, something will unravel.”  
John looked up at Sherlock, who stared out the window past John, lost in thought.  
“Of course,” Sherlock said, readjusting his hold on the grocery bags and making his way to the kitchen, “I wouldn’t need to read the case files—“  
“Oh, fuck you and your mind palace,” John said, turning away from Sherlock but certain that Sherlock knew he was smiling. “What did you get?”  
“More tea, blood samples, some tissue samples, a few new case files from Lestrade, nothing worth our time, a few vials of this and that for my coagulation work, and a few things of biscuits.”  
John said, focusing on the case file in his hand, “And milk.”  
Sherlock closed his eyes. “Damn.”  
“And once again it falls to me to buy the milk.”  
“Shut up, John.”  
“I’d apologize, but that’s not your thing. Next time could you actually, I dunno, buy food?”  
Sherlock gave a laugh and opened the fridge to put things away.  
He shut the fridge. He opened it again and stared for a moment.  
“JOHN.”  
John nonchalantly shrank into the pile of case files.  
“John, what the hell did you do with my head?”  
“Just tea for me, thanks,” said John impishly.  
“Where the hell is my head for my experiment, John? Why the hell is the fridge filled with cake and what the hell did you do with my head?!”  
John peered over the case files. “It’s an experiment, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock blinked. “It’s a what?”  
“Wonder how fast we can ruin Mycroft’s diet again if we leave that on the counter?”  
Mrs. Hudson came upstairs a short while later to find Sherlock and John chucking biscuits and socks across the room at each other, both nearly in tears from laughing.  
“Sherlock, didn’t you hear the bell?” Mrs. Hudson demanded, watching the two men throwing things across the room. “The police are here—you’ve got another one. Really, the two of you, you’re acting like children instead of fully grown men. I’m not cleaning this for you, I’m really not.”  
“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” said John, beaning Sherlock square in the face with a biscuit. “You’re not our housekeeper, after all.”  
“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock, trying to hit John but missing him by several inches.  
Footsteps on the stairs behind Mrs. Hudson announced the arrival of Lestrade. Sherlock, remembering that he and John still had some sixty hours to go on their bet, resumed acting as John. He straightened and brushed biscuit crumbs off of his shirt. “Come on, John,” he said. “Straighten up—we can’t act like children if Lestrade is coming to beg for my—I mean, your—help. People will talk.”  
“Boring,” John said with an enormous grin, throwing another biscuit from behind his wall of case files with perfect aim so that it exploded into crumbs in Sherlock’s hair. “People do little else.”  
“John—“ protested Sherlock, ducking behind the armchair he was using as a shield.  
He was interrupted by the arrival of Detective Inspector Lestrade, who walked right through the door and into the middle of the apartment and narrowly missed being smacked in the face with one of Sherlock’s socks. Behind him a stranger stood in the hallway looking disgruntled.  
“What in the—“said Lestrade, but stopped short at the sight of Sherlock dressed in a jumper hiding behind a chair while John, clad in his bathrobe and buried in files, brandished the other sock in his hand.  
John licked his lips. Ah. He could feel his face turning red, but swallowed and remembered that he and Sherlock still had a challenge. He hadn’t anticipated having a real case, however; this complicated things. He swallowed and dropped the sock. “Ah,” he said. “Inspector. Do we have a case?”  
“Uh…” said Lestrade, clearly at a loss for words. “Case… Case…” He seemed to come to his senses, and shook his head as if doing so would restore normality. “Right,” he continued. “Yes. This man here says his wife’s gone missing, possibly run away with the neighbor. She’s run with a large sum and a lot of securities, and he’s willing to pay just about anything if you can find the two of ‘em.”  
John looked at Sherlock, who met John’s gaze and started to roll his eyes but stopped himself halfway through and changed his expression to one of polite interest. John sighed. “Text me the address, Gre—Inspector,” he said, fishing his phone out of his pocket. “Sherlock and I will take the case.”  
“Right,” said Lestrade thickly. “Is this a creepy new pastime or something? You two switch places so I feel like I’ve lost my mind?”  
“It’s an experiment,” said John, fighting to keep his face straight.  
“You could read all about it on my blog,” said Sherlock.  
Lestrade stared at them for a few more seconds, then said, “Right. Okay. Well, this—“ and he gestured to the man standing behind him in the doorway, who was peering into the room at Sherlock, “—is Josiah Amberley, the gentleman who’s asked for your help. I know this isn’t your usual case, Sherlock, but—“  
“Come on, Sherlock,” said John. “You means us, and we have a case!”  
“You means you,” said Sherlock. “And you’re not going to a crime scene dressed in a bathrobe, so stop acting like an idiot.”  
John scowled at Sherlock, nodded stiffly to Lestrade and Amberley, and left the room to get dressed.  
Sherlock smiled politely at Lestrade and Amberley, muttered, “Sorry about that,” to Amberley, and strode forward with his hand outstretched. “I am Sherlock Holmes,” said Sherlock. Amberley shook his hand; his handshake was quick, firm, and controlled, and he quickly let go of Sherlock’s hand and returned to his sullen stance beside Lestrade. Sherlock’s eyes widened as information surged through his mind, but for the first time in his life, he kept his conclusions to himself, instead saying, “My friend… I mean, colleague, Dr. Watson, will be out in just a moment. He’ll be accompanying you to the crime scene.”  
“Are you not coming?” demanded Lestrade in surprise.  
“Ah,” Sherlock replied. He smiled. “I think not. But John is fine in his own right; I’m sure he’ll be able to give you all the help you need in tracking down your wife, Mr. Amberley.”  
“I certainly hope so, Mr. Holmes,” said Amberley.  
Sherlock nodded curtly, pursed his lips, and stood in the entrance to the kitchen, swinging his arms awkwardly, until John returned. It was, he realized, rather embarrassing, from an emotionally invested point of view, to have a client arrive and see him—or John, in this case—looking so unprofessional. Thankfully, Sherlock reminded himself, he didn’t really care, but he could see how John might, and he made a mental note of the fact. More importantly, he realized, would be letting John experience solving the case from his perspective. Sherlock doubted that John knew even a fraction of what he did, nor did he have much of a base to go on.  
“Another pair of eyes would be… helpful,” said John when he returned, dressed in all black and with a scarf around his neck (Lestrade resumed staring at John and Sherlock in confusion).  
Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  
“Unless you’re busy,” said John.  
“Somehow, John, I’m always available just when you need me,” said Sherlock.  
John paused in the middle of donning a dark jacket. “… Do you really feel that way?’  
“I do, John,” sad Sherlock. “When it counts, I count on you.”  
John met his gaze. “Well, where else would I be if not running after you, saving your ass?” Both men smiled, then John took a deep breath and said, all business, “I guess I’ll see how I do on my own this time.”  
"Thought you’d say that," said Sherlock with a nod.  
John continued, “Lestrade, we’d best get going. I will be looking into the case; Sherlock will remain behind and assist me if I should need it. Mr. Amberley—“ and here John paused and shook Amberley’s hand, “—you’re a paint supplier, are you not? Out in Lewisham?”  
Sherlock stared at John.  
“Ah, why yes,” said Amberley, somewhat amazed. Lestrade looked like he’d been clubbed over the head. “Retired now, though.”  
“Still living in Lewisham?”  
“I am. Just me, my wife, and our dogs.”  
“Well then, I’ll take a cab and meet you at your home to begin investigations. Detective-Inspector Lestrade has given me the address.” At this John held up his mobile phone by way of explanation before proceeding to call a cab by text.  
“Will you have stopped being bizarre by then?” said Lestrade. John shook his head. Lestrade sighed. “All right, then. Good luck, I suppose.”  
Lestrade and Amberley left. John and Sherlock exited 221B Baker Street and Sherlock stood with John as John waited on the sidewalk for the cab to arrive. “All right,” said Sherlock. “How did you know he was a house painter, John?”  
“Ahh,” said John with a smirk. “As ever, Sherlock, you see but do not observe—“  
“I already know—“  
“Shut up. I looked him up, happy? What did you deduce?”  
“I’m sure you’ve gotten more than I did. I’m just a lowly former army doctor who now spends his time being beholden to a brilliant detective. What could I—“  
“Just shut up.”  
“What do you know about the man, then?”  
John thought for a moment. “Married, no children, retired, house painter. You? A second opinion would be nice. I don’t need one, mind, I just like to remind you of how completely stupid you are sometimes.”  
“Well,” said Sherlock. “I could deduce that his line of work was related to the painting from his hands and the faint flecks of matte paint on his shoes and coat. Both are quite old, suggesting that he’s had them a long time, indicating a man on a fixed income, suggesting retirement or low income. Age suggests retirement as the more likely. Older men no longer working tend to keep their clothing until it’s more patch than cloth.  
“His age is easy enough to figure out. His hands have the calluses of a man who has long worked with paintbrushes—the calluses are all over the fingers of his dominant hand, in this case the left, but most thick by far on the middle and ring fingers where the brush has rested against the finger while being held—but since the calluses cover a larger area of the palm as well it must be a house-painting style of brush. So, house painter it is. You can also see he’s slightly hunched, suggesting back damage, not uncommon in a man who has spent the last forty years of his life bending to paint high places. His heavily muscled arms support that conclusion. His handshake is firm, though, so he must be in control of his faculties.  
He’s a miser, grumpy, unhappy with the current state of his marriage, not good at keeping family or friends, which is easily reinforced by the fact that his wife just supposedly ran out on him with the neighbor who was a friend of his. Paranoid; look at the way he watches everyone like he’s waiting for something. Can’t keep friends or family, says a lot about him—most people can keep at least one of the two. Easily made jealous, cheap, married a woman much younger than himself and has been suspicious of her for some time, distrustful of everyone, and overall quite clever, if I’m not mistaken.” Sherlock glanced at John out of the corner of his eye for his reaction.  
“That was—“ John started to say, before he caught himself. He finished, “—not bad. Of course, you’ve missed the important thing.”  
“Have I?” said Sherlock.  
“Yeah,” said John. “I’m not a giant prick.”


	3. Get Ready To Be The Skull

When John arrived at Amberley’s home in Lewisham, Amberley greeted him at the door. The front of the house, surrounded by a freshly painted fence, was in good care. The door to the house was ajar, and Amberley emerged as John approached the front porch, carrying a bucket of paint in each hand. Amberley set the buckets down. Amberley himself was still in his coat from before, but had new dashes of paint on his hands. He nodded to them as they approached. “Mr. Watson,” he said.  
“Might I have a look around?” asked John, trying to take charge. “I should examine where your wife took the money and securities from, as well as any other, um, important places in the house.”  
“If it helps you find her and that damn doctor,” Amberley muttered. “Follow me.” Amberley showed John into the house, guiding him around several open cans of paint.  
John sent a text. 

_Amberley is annoyed I’m not actually you. -J_

 

“Redecorating?” said John.

_So? -S_

Amberley grunted. “It’s an absolute disgrace if a painter’s house looks like rubbish, Doctor. A man’s home is his castle. Or Haven, in this case. I call the house the Haven. The paint makes me calm. It’s nice to repaint.”

_Do me justice then. -S_

“I see.” John smiled politely, but couldn’t shake how uncomfortable he felt. The feeling was probably, however, just nerves. John hated to admit it, but he hated the idea of having to be Sherlock Holmes. He didn’t want to have to fill the man’s shoes and try to deduce brilliant things from a can of paint and a strongroom. But he didn’t want to give up just yet. He followed Amberley to a living room. The entire house smelled suffocatingly of paint.

_He’s repainting his house. Paint everywhere.-J_

_Good. What else? –S_

_I might die of the smell. –J_

_Stop fooling around. -S_

“You mentioned a doctor a moment ago, Mr. Amberley? Could you…?” John prompted.  
“My neighbor, Dr. Ray Ernest. He’s the bastard that went and ran off with the missus. The way he looked at her when he came around…”  
“Did he come around often?”  
“To see me, or so I thought. She’s much younger than I am…”Amberley glanced at John angrily. “Twenty years younger. Ernest is younger too.”  
John reminded himself that Sherlock would be distant. If he was trying to think like Sherlock, he’d had to try to maintain the same boundaries. He licked his lips and focused on the physical. John noticed the room was kept clean. A coffee table supported a few chessboards around the room. “You play chess, Mr. Amberley?”  
“With Ernest. I was my favorite pastime.”  
“I see.” John examined the rest of the living room, his eyes wandering over the bookshelves filled with well-organized volumes. The place was surprisingly clean, the only thing marring the well-scrubbed atmosphere of the house was the smell of paint heavy in the air.

_House old but well kept. -J_

John glanced out the window to see that the backyard, hidden from the front of the house, was unkempt and overgrown. A couple doghouses stuck up out of the long grass.

_But his yard looks like it hasn’t been mowed since before I was born. -J_

“You mentioned yesterday that you have dogs, Mr. Amberley?” said John, noticing that the dogs were nowhere to be seen.  
“They’re at the kennel,” said Amberley absently. “If I’m painting the Haven, they ought to be somewhere else so the smell doesn’t hurt them.”  
“Oh,” said John. “But you’re staying here?”  
“Keeping an eye on the house,” Amberley said harshly, his tone bitter.  
“I see.”  
“I’m disappointed that Mr. Holmes did not join you,” Mr. Amberley said.  
“Pardon?” said John. He fought the urge to roll his eyes. As ever, he was the understudy for Sherlock Holmes.  
“I had hoped Mr. Holmes would be able to find something of interest here. I know I’m just another case of the runaway wife, Doctor, but… God damn it!” Amberley suddenly growled. “When did I ever stop her from doing whatever she wanted? You’d be hard-pressed to find a man who treated his wife better, sir! And Ernest, he… he was practically my son… And here’s my thanks! She slinks off with my dearest friend, with all of my money. She took my account information, my cards, my cash… Everything. I just…” And here Amberley paused to look out the window as well, staring out towards the doghouses in the ramshackle backyard.

_Rage issues. Trust issues. –J_

_And you accuse me of being insensitive. –S_

_I’M BEING YOU. -J_

“I had bought her tickets to see the theatre, you know,” said Amberley, still staring out the window. He pulled a ticket out of his coat pocket and brandished it in John’s face. “The night she left me. I was going to surprise her, but she said she felt sick, so I went alone…”  
John caught a glimpse of the ticket number.

_Remind me to tell you 31B later. –J_

_What does 31B mean? –S_

_There you go. Now you sound like me. -J_

_I'm not asking because I don't know, I'm asking because I'M BEING YOU, Captain Obvious of the 5th Northumberland. -S_

Amberley seemed to snap out of his funk and promptly walked to a small passage out of the living room. John followed him until they reached a thick door with a padlock. “Is this where you kept your money?” said John, somewhat amused at the very old-fashioned looking room, like a bank safe in the man’s pantry. It had very clearly been a back boiler room of some sort before Amberley converted it into a sort of vault. A few remnants of old pipes hung from the ceiling, totally at odds with the reinforced and well-locked door.  
“Yeah,” said Amberley. He gestured to the lock. “I have a key. Only one. But it would have been easy for her to make a copy. When I got back from the theatre last night, the strongroom was wide open and no one was home; I called the police right away.”  
The room had indeed been stripped of its contents. There were a couple little boxes and some half-filled checkbooks lying on the shelves, but everything else had been taken sometime in the night.  
John whistled softly. “Didn’t miss much,” he commented.  
“No,” Amberley agreed bitterly. “She and Ray played me for a fool. All that time…”  
John cut Amberley off. “Did she take anything else? Clothes, perhaps?”  
Amberley showed John to the master bedroom, where clothing had been very quickly pulled from drawers, scattered across the floor. “She packed light,” said Amberley simply. “Not much gone.”  
John examined the clothing but found nothing unusual about it. “Good,” John said finally, though he didn’t mean it. “All right. Can I get in touch with you tomorrow, perhaps? When Sherlock and I have had a chance to look things over?”  
“By all means,” Amberley shrugged. “I’ll be here painting if you need me.”

_Coming back. Get ready to be the skull. –J_

_My joy knows no bounds. –S_

\---

“This doesn’t make any sense!” John howled, running a hand through his short sandy hair. He had returned to 221B Baker Street to find Sherlock reading one of John’s own medical papers. John had told Sherlock everything of importance that he’d seen while at the Haven, and since then had spent a long time trying, without success, to find something conclusive. Sherlock was irritatingly unhelpful.  
“You can do it, John,” Sherlock sighed. He sat in the kitchen yet again, while John stretched out on the couch looking miserable. “I will just offer encouragement at odd intervals until the solution leaps to your capable mind.” He drummed his fingers on the table.  
“Pass me my phone, will you.” John made it as a statement.  
“Where?”  
“Pocket,” said John.  
Sherlock stared at him for a long time. “You know I only do that when I’m thinking.”  
“I am thinking. Now hand me my phone.”  
Sherlock heaved a sigh, crossed the room, fished John’s mobile out of the pocket of his jumper, handed it to him, and sank into an armchair. John fiddled with the phone before tossing it to the far end of the sofa.  
“You have to really think about it,” said Sherlock lazily. “Think about what you know, and then what you know each fact means, and then what you’re actually supposed to be noticing. It’s not hard.”  
“It’s not hard for you! You and your massive head!” John retorted, sitting at the table across from Sherlock.  
“There’s no need to be rude.”  
“Why not? It’s so you. You make everyone around you feel inadequate and then you swoop in and solve everything like the god of deductions. No one can compete with the godly Sherlock Holmes! I am a mere mortal in the presence of the sainted Sherlock Holmes!”  
“God!” Sherlock bellowed. “If I make your life such a misery, John, then why don’t you just leave?”  
“Excellent que—“ John started to retort.  
Sherlock grabbed his long black coat and stormed out of the flat, leaving John to stare after him.  
John got up and, ignoring his own jacket, ran down the stairs after Sherlock. “Sherlock!” he called, but Sherlock slammed the front door to 221B after him, ignoring John’s call.  
“Damn,” John muttered, and he rushed out the front door and nearly collided with Sherlock, who was standing on the sidewalk. The street was quiet, the silence of late-night London undisturbed.  
“Where are you going?” said John breathily. His heart pounded in his chest.  
“I don’t know,” said Sherlock. “I just realized that I have nowhere to go besides here and Bart’s.”  
“You’re not sleeping at Bart’s,” John panted. He gently took Sherlock’s arm by the elbow and dragged him back inside. John looked up to meet his companion’s eyes. Sherlock actually looked hurt.  
“Do you really feel that way?” said Sherlock softly. “About me, I mean.”  
“No,” said John. And he meant it. “It’s easy for me to feel like an idiot next to you, but I always remember that you’re an idiot too. I’m sorry, Sherlock.”  
“I’m sorry if I don’t…” Sherlock searched for the right word. “… appreciate you enough. You are a great help to me. Don’t tell the skull, but I like you more.”  
John laughed. “And I’m sorry if I punish you for being, well, you. You can’t just turn off your head, can you?”  
“No,” Sherlock sighed. “Though I envy the rest of you for your ability to.”  
“I’m going to pretend that wasn’t a jab.” John and Sherlock walked back up the stairs into their flat and collapsed into chairs, suddenly both infinitely more tired.  
Finally John said, “Just… tell me how to be you. How is it that you can have all of these thoughts in your head and still manage to make sense of it all? I don’t understand.”  
Sherlock frowned. “I can’t explain it. I just do it. But I think in a different way. I think without all of those stupid limits other people make. I don’t ask if it’s possible, I assume that it is, and then I make the logical connections. And I pay attention. It’s a matter of remembering things. Stupid people remember things based on a system of necessity—what’s important, what isn’t important. I count all physical things as important. I didn’t put limits on things. So when I’m studying something I don’t have to try to create a parallel from scratch. I don’t have to go out on a limb.”  
After a pause, John asked, “Do you know where Mrs. Amberley and Dr. Ernest are, then?”  
“I have my suspicions, though I admit some things don’t quite match up.”  
“Oh… kay…” John said uncertainly. “Well, we know that Amberley’s wife and Dr. Ernest left sometime while Josiah Amberley was at the theatre. We know that Mrs. Amberley claimed illness and stayed home. We know that the strongroom was opened with the key. We know that the house is clean and that Amberley’s painting it and it’s absolutely miserable in there the smell is so strong. We know he’s upset. We know he plays chess. We know he has a bad back. We know he attended the theatre alone last night and his wife’s ticket said seat 31, row B. His wife packed very light, apparently; only grabbed a few things. Didn’t take any sort of memento. Just clothes, some jewelry, and money.”  
“Good. And using that…” Sherlock urged.  
“Um… no, I’m lost,“ John rubbed his eyes. He giggled. “To think I’ve been you for less than a day and I’m already exhausted. Holy Mary. I need sleep. Well, what would you do next, Sherlock?”  
“If I were me, you mean?”  
John nodded.  
Sherlock gave a huge yawn. “I’d trick Amberley into leaving the house and seize the opportunity to break in to investigate. But that’s just me.”


	4. I Win

John left the flat early himself, passing a note on the skull from Sherlock that read “ _Went out. Make Amberley go to Essex. –SH_ ”.  
“Helpful, Sherlock,” John said sarcastically to the room at large.  
Lestrade did not argue when John called him early the next morning and requested that he call Josiah Amberley in to the station again. John told Lestrade to tell Amberley that a man from Essex had called in with information about Mrs. Amberley; he gave Lestrade a random address out of the phone book.  
He texted Sherlock.

_Meet me at Amberley’s in 30 if possible. –J_

He paused, then added:

_If not, come anyway. -J_

John then hurried out of the building and caught a cab to the theatre where Amberley had gone last night. He checked the theatre schedule and found nothing out of line with what Amberley had told him. A show had happened, last night, just as Amberley had said. He asked the box office clerk who had reserved seat 31B and the adjacent seats; the teenager rolled his eyes and said, “A Mr. Amberley had seats 31B and 32B, and—“  
“Thanks,” John said, tossing the clerk five quid. The kid pocketed it happily.  
Feeling lost, John made his way to the police station, where he met Lestrade and Amberley, both of whom were leaving the building.  
“—could have phoned,” Amberley was saying angrily to Lestrade. “There was no need to drag me all the way out to Essex and to here to find out that no one actually knows anything. I don’t like having my time wast—“  
“John,” said Lestrade, interrupting Amberley and speaking to John with forced courtesy. “I do hope you have a good reason for taking Mr. Amberley to a laundromat in Essex.”  
“I really don’t know,” John lied. “I must have confused the message. Mr. Amberley,” he continued, turning to the fuming elderly man. “Might I have another look around your house? Sherlock ought to be joining me there.”  
“Really?” said Amberley in surprise, his anger vanishing instantly. “You mean he’s actually coming?”

_Bring Lestrade. –S_

“Oh yes,” John muttered. “I have a bad feeling that he is.”

John, Lestrade, and Amberley arrived at the Haven a short while later. As soon as they pulled up in front of the house, Amberley exclaimed, “Oh damn, I left the windows closed! My apologies, it’s going to be suffocating in there.”  
“We’ll just open up a few windows, get some air flowing,” John reassured him, secretly dreading returning to the nauseating odor of paint fumes. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”  
Amberley unlocked the front door and let John and Lestrade in. “So, Dr. Watson,” Amberley said. “Have you made any sort of progress?”  
“What?” said John absently. “Oh, um, yes. Might have a lead. Not sure.”  
“Thank heavens,” said Amberley. “I was beginning to think she’d never be found. I never much liked banks, so I kept all my savings in that strongroom. Don’t know what I’ll do without it. Pension’s not much.”  
Amberley started opening windows around the living room. John and Lestrade helped, throwing the windows wide to let some blissfully fresh-smelling air enter the house. Finally all three men sat in the living room, trying to ignore the heady smell of paint that was strong enough to taste. Amberley rearranged the pieces on the chessboard in front of him. Amberley was much calmer today than he’d been the day before, as if he was coming to terms with a grim prospect. “Can I get you anythi—“  
A loud bang interrupted Amberley. He, John, and Lestrade all looked around, but didn’t see anything. “Did you hear something?” said Amberley anxiously.  
“Must have been a bird or something?” said Lestrade. “Hitting a window?”  
“Just hold on,” said John commandingly. The other two men did as he said, and they all waited for a minute.  
An equally thunderous crash came from down the hall.  
“Someone’s in here,” said Amberley suddenly. His eyes grew wide with terror.  
“Stay close to me,” said Lestrade, getting to his feet.  
“You don’t think it’s—“ Amberley started to say, but John ignored him and crept down the hallway towards the strongroom ahead of them. He wished more than anything that he’d brought his gun, but he had a feeling nagging at the back of his mind that he knew what to expect. He went to the strongroom door, behind which faint noises could be heard.  
“Key,” John mouthed to Lestrade and Amberley, who had come up behind him. Amberley was white as a sheet; every slight thump from behind the strongroom door made him flinch.  
Amberley passed John the key with trembling fingers. John put the key in the lock, and signaled to Lestrade to be ready but not to shoot unnecessarily. Lestrade nodded. John quickly turned the key in the lock, twisted the doorknob, and wrenched the door open.  
Sherlock Holmes flew out of the open door like a bullet, taking a gasping breath of air as he toppled from the room. “Sherlo—“ John cried, catching Sherlock around the shoulders as Sherlock coughed and desperately took deep shuddering breaths; but Sherlock shoved John’s arm away and lunged forward to grab Amberley, who was frozen in shock with his hands clutched together in front of his heart.  
“What did you do with the bodies?” demanded Sherlock, shaking Amberley by the shoulders. “What did you do with the bodies?”  
Amberley let out a scream. Lestrade took a step away from Amberley, and John could see why; the man looked demented. Amberley clapped his hands over his mouth.  
“No!” Sherlock shouted just as John understood what was going on. Dashing around Lestrade—who was staring at Amberley with an expression of disgust on his face—John slammed one hand on the square of Amberley’s back as Sherlock leapt like a tiger at Amberley and turned his face to the ground. A small pill fell from Amberley’s lips.  
“No short cuts, Josiah,” Sherlock said softly. He glanced at the pill, muttered, “Poison,” and crushed the pill with the heel of his shoe.  
“Good God,” said Lestrade. He took out a set of handcuffs. “So it was him? Are you sure he did it?”  
Amberley sank to the floor, utterly defeated.  
“Quite sure,” said Sherlock. “Especially after experiencing the same situation that killed our two supposed runaway lovebirds only a few seconds ago.” Sherlock took a deep breath (John put a hand on his back to steady him) to clear his lungs and explained quickly. “John is the one who put me onto it, even if he didn’t realize what the facts meant. The whole house smells of paint, which calls attention to the odd fact that Josiah here suddenly felt like doing a little remodeling despite the fact that his wife just ran out on him. If painting or interior decorating were passions of his it might make sense, but no, he’s an old man whose only passion these days is playing chess. His back’s no good for painting a house this size for fun anymore. It would hurt. So, obviously, he’s doing it to cover up another smell. Gas, I think you’ll find. The strongroom is hermetically sealed—there’s not even a crack at the bottom of the door. It’s an old room, converted from a boiler room of some kind, so the old pipes are still in place, supposedly disconnected, but I think you’ll find, Lestrade, that the pipes have been reconnected to a gas line. It wouldn’t be hard for a person to reconnect them; in fact if John’s capable of fixing the sink at 221B then Josiah here could certainly do it—“  
“Hey—“ said John.  
But Sherlock plowed on. “This morning I went to the Haymarket Theatre that John was kind enough to tell me Amberley had attended the other night, but while the play did happen at the time he told us and he did purchase two tickets for it, the box office clerk was kind enough to show me the reservations and Mr. Amberley never actually showed up to the theatre, so where was he actually? Home, of course, murdering his wife and neighbor, because he believed that the two of them were having an affair. His wife claiming illness two nights ago was the last straw. He cracked, decided he had to kill them, that night, though he’d obviously been thinking about it some time before. So he lured them into the strongroom and shut the door on them—the door can’t be opened from the inside, as I have demonstrated for you a moment ago—so all Josiah had to do was turn on the gas and wait for his wife and her lover to suffocate inside. You’ll notice at the base of the door the words “We we” have been scratched into the wood varnish with a fingernail; presumably the start of the sentence “We were murdered” done by one Mrs. Amberley in the seconds before she died. God knows _why_ Josiah thought killing his wife and neighbor was a good way to address the issue of their affair—there was no affair, by the way,” Sherlock said to Amberley, who looked up at him in horror. ”You can tell from her toothbrush—but then you were too blinded by… oh, what's the word…”  
“Sentiment,” offered John.  
“Yes, sentiment,” finished Sherlock.  
“But… but where are the bodies, then?” said Lestrade.  
Realization dawned on John. “Under the doghouse,” he said in a shocked voice, and Sherlock gave him an appraising look. “In the backyard, under the doghouses. He kept looking out there into the yard, and it’s the only place where you wouldn’t notice someone had been digging; the rest of the yard’s too overgrown. He buried them under there.”  
“Knew you’d get there eventually,” said Sherlock.  
“Thanks?” said John.  
“But why did he call you?” said Lestrade. “If he was guilty…”  
“Swank. He was convinced I couldn’t figure it out,” shrugged Sherlock. “Idiot. He was disappointed when I didn’t show up yesterday because he wanted me to not know the answer. Murderers always assume that no one will trace it back to them if they report the disappearance. Classic stupid. Thankfully John is decently observant and I have a good set of lock picks.”  
“So you broke into his house…” said Lestrade.  
“To see the pipes in the strongroom for myself at my leisure, yes,” said Sherlock. A look from both John and Lestrade made him add angrily, “I’m a consulting detective, Lestrade, not a burglar!”  
“All right, all right,” Lestrade blustered. “I’m getting a PIN lock on my door.”  
“No point, those are easy, and why on Earth would I want to break into your—“  
“Josiah Amberley,” continued Lestrade, turning to the man on the ground and hauling him to his feet. Lestrade started to lock the handcuffs on the man’s wrists. “You are hereby—“  
“ _NO_!” shouted Amberley, twisting around to draw a gun tucked out of sight from his belt. He pointed it at Sherlock. Sherlock took a step back. “No—“  
John grabbed Amberley from behind, one hand seizing Amberley’s gun hand and wrenching it towards the ceiling while he pinned Amberley’s remaining arm at the shoulder. Amberley fired into the ceiling as he twisted in John’s hold, but John tightened his grip on the gun and Amberley’s hand. John managed to work his hands to the trigger over Amberley’s and he discharged the gun completely into the ceiling.  
Lestrade stepped in and had Amberley cuffed within a few seconds. “Christ,” he apologized. “I didn’t expect him to—“  
“Neither did I,” said John in a steady voice. The practiced military control he’d developed in years of combat had slipped back into his mind. Everything was in higher focus—slower. This, John realized, was probably as close to feeling like Sherlock Holmes as he would ever come. The brief few seconds where nerves became like steel and the world developed a razor-sharp clarity; no matter how crazy the world around him was, in the couple of seconds it took for him to act, all of the necessary motions became clear. He had no doubt. No fear. No insecurity.  
“Are you all right?” demanded Sherlock, grabbing John by the shoulders and half-lifting him off the ground as he examined John for injury.  
“Fine,” said John, awkwardly aware that Lestrade was right there. “I’m fine, Sherlock, knock it off.”  
Sherlock released John and took a deep breath. “Good,” he said. “I was…”  
“Yeah,” said John. There was a long pause as both men turned and watched Lestrade, who finished telling Amberley his rights and prepared to take him out to the car.  
“Well,” said Lestrade finally, making everyone in the room turn to look at him. “Come on, boys, let’s head down the station and get this all sorted.”  
“Actually, I think John and I will pass.” Sherlock straightened his coat collar. “Lestrade, since you’re going to take all of the credit for this one—“  
“I’m what?” said Lestrade blankly.  
“Well obviously you’re not going to report that I solved the case by breaking into a man’s house,” said Sherlock patiently.  
“I guess not,” said Lestrade. “Wouldn’t look good; not very legal, is it. Though you probably just don’t want it published that you, the great Sherlock Holmes, got yourself locked—“  
“Yes, thank you,” grumbled Sherlock.  
“—in an old boiler room and nearly suffocated yourself because you forgot to stop the door from closing after you.”  
“You don’t mention that, and I won’t mention that you let him get out a gun.”  
Lestrade glared at Sherlock. “Piss off,” he said.  
John and Sherlock watched Lestrade lead Amberley—who was near catatonic with shock—to his car. Both John and Sherlock agreed to wait at the house until a squad of officers could come to inspect the backyard, but both men knew what they would find and so they sat on the porch in the midday sun and watched Lestrade drive away.  
“I win, you know,” said John lightly.  
“What?” Sherlock demanded.  
“There is no way on Earth I would do what you did. I’m not _that_ stupid.” John smiled.  
“Yes you would,” Sherlock replied.  
“Um, no,” John scoffed. “No, I wouldn’t. You’re the one who breaks into houses and marauds around to solve murders. I stand outside and tell you what a prat you are.”  
“You would if you thought lives depended on it.”  
“I’m not reckless like you, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock snorted. “Then explain what wrestling a lunatic for a gun makes you.”  
“Heroic.”  
Sherlock let out a laugh. "Frankly, I'm not arguing with that."  
John smiled. “But I guess if I was you, I’d have done something more… dangerous, wouldn’t I?”  
“Probably,” said Sherlock. He stretched his long legs out on the front steps.  
“Hang on,” said John suddenly. “You had me call Lestrade to send Amberley all the way to Essex so you could break into his house?”  
“Obviously.”  
John licked his lips. “You,” he said, “are insane. Absolutely, undeniably insane.”  
“You’re just figuring that out now?” laughed Sherlock. Both men smiled and gazed down the road.  
After a long pause, John sighed. “And no one will ever know that it was really you who figured this all out.”  
"Maybe the real story will be told," Sherlock shrugged. "Someday. What does it matter if anyone knows who really solved it? All that matters is that it was solved."  
"I know." John thought about this for a moment. "All right,” he said, turning back to Sherlock. “So no one wins. Our bet, I mean.”  
“So it would seem,” said Sherlock.  
Sherlock’s phone beeped. Sherlock checked the screen and turned to John. “Looks like we have another case already; Lestrade said he heard about a double homicide on the radio, door locked from the inside, no weapon. Coming?”  
“Obviously.”  
“Sherlock looked at John. A wide grin was crossing Sherlock’s face. He could see what John was thinking. There was a pause.  
“Want to try a rematch?” said John.  
Sherlock smiled. “Oh God yes.”


End file.
